


Goodnight Sweetheart

by Crowdays



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Death, Eventual Smut, M/M, World War II, all that good stuff, operation torch
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-02
Updated: 2016-06-08
Packaged: 2018-07-11 20:02:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7068037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowdays/pseuds/Crowdays
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set in the harsh winter of 1942, Arthur Kirkland is a veteran soldier serving under Operation Torch. After a series of unfortunate events, he finds himself having to do everything from training to sleeping with the one American set on causing him grief. And yet, why does his heart jump at every touch they share?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Ah.. I'm pretty bad at titles and descriptions. Anyway! Just a forewarning to any history buffs out there; this piece is most likely going to be littered with mistakes. While history is my passion, I'm afraid that there will still be many inaccuracies. This work is just for fun, after all, but I will try to keep it somewhat vaguely realistic for both mine and your sanity. In any case, however, I hope you enjoy reading it!

Arthur was twenty when he joined the army. Though it was of no inclination of his own, mind you; if he’d had his way, he would’ve spent the next several years of his early adult life tucked away behind a desk in the grand halls of his university, bent over priceless editions of Homer’s Odyssey and the patriarchal poems of John Keats. Hell, if he’d had his own way, there would be no war and no reason to join the army in the first place. But if there was anything he’d learnt from growing up the youngest of four increasingly loud and brutish brothers, it was that Arthur rarely ever got his own way.

 

It was a good thing, really. Growing up with the understanding that fate did not play her cards with his fortune in mind had taught him many things; how to handle disappointment, adversity, setbacks and mistakes. It taught him that life moved forward whether given his permission or not, and that the only way not to be left behind was to pluck up his wits and carry on. Arthur was no gambler, but he understood there wasn’t a in point wallowing in the lament of what cards he’d been dealt. No, a good gambler, he reasoned, was one that accepted his cards and played them anyway. Giving up was an assured defeat.

 

Though, that being said, he’d certainly felt like giving up during the first few weeks of his enrolment. Of course, Arthur did have some idea what army life entailed; he hadn’t expected it to be as comfy as life in Oxfordshire, where he’d returned to a flat permeated with the comforting smells of old books and rich tea, the luxury of his warm knit throw and the occasional cello performance from what sounded like the apartment above him. His family had filled in enough gaps for him to get the gist of exactly they were pushing him into. They needn’t have pushed his brothers, for they had been so swayed by the idea of glinting medals and heroic fantasies of defeating the ‘evil Nazi bastards’ that they all but encouraged his parents original enthusiasm. In some ways, Arthur blamed his parent’s persistency on his brothers’ eager acceptance of their wishes. Having four war hero children to boast about just wasn’t enough, it seemed; the Kirkland household could not bear one offspring straying from the decided course, and, that as it were, Arthur found himself being muscled into joining the army not only but by his country, his neighbours and, most embarrassingly, his financial situation—for he’d been supporting himself on the meagre incomes of two jobs plus support from his parents—he was muscled into joining the army by his family, too.

 

If they’d told him what truly lay in store, however, he would’ve put up much more a fight than the aggrieved acceptance he threw his parent’s way. Even if he hadn’t had much choice at the time, given that their support had been the reason he was making ends meet in Oxford, he would’ve found a way. Perhaps he would’ve taken a third job down at the corner shop where he bought his cigarettes. Perhaps he would’ve stopped buying those cigarettes in the first place. Perhaps, if there weren’t a war starting, Arthur wouldn’t have had to say goodbye to his bed and his books and the idea of what his life would be. Perhaps, as it turned out, was a word he grew to avoid.

 

What he couldn’t avoid, however, was the decision to join the army, no matter what flights of fancy his mind conjured during the awfully cold nights spent lain against the worst excuse for a bunk in the world. As time wore on, Arthur realised he had always been destined to sign himself up no matter what he did or how long he waited; conscription would’ve come for him eventually, being of age and dreadfully single and not particularly important to his country. If he hadn’t gone before, he would’ve gone later. It was just a matter of time that held the difference between going willingly and going out of obligation.

 

Still, out of freewill or not, nothing would’ve made him more enthusiastic in the face of army training. The first few weeks had been a hellish experience that, though when he’d recall them months later the days mingled into a hazy state as though he’d had a terrible fever the entire duration. In the moment, the training and the exercises and the courses seemed to press on for far too many hours to be just one day, one week. But after four months through bitter winter and even bitter rations, he could scarcely remember the first weeks he’d spent in the army with the same amount of clarity as he could of what he’d been doing at Oxford beforehand. What he could remember, however, was the feelings of it; the absolute, sheer exhaustion, the hopelessness, the terrible bouts homesickness that made a feast of his heart every night he lay in his bunk, surrounded by men and boys the same.

 

But by the time he’d been shipped to France, he’d built the shell of a soldier around him; he was a literary enthusiast with a perchance for good tea underneath, but he no longer cowered at the sound of gunfire or buckled under the vibrations of mortar far off in the distance. He was a man militarily dressed in the hasty handiwork of some poor seamstress back home, and he carried his pistol with as much nerve as the rest of the brigade. For the time being, he no longer belonged to the inner circles of Oxford’s university. Now, whether he chose to be or not, he was a man belonging to the fourth Oxford and Buckinghamshire light infantry.

 

Or had been, anyway; after the disastrous defence of the Belgium/French border, he and what remained of his division were driven back through upper France and to the shores of Dunkirk. He hadn’t an idea of how many exactly had died in the invasion—he’d heard rumours the death toll was in the thousands—but he’d seen enough pain and bloodshed to know he’d been lucky to see English soil once again.

 

He could still remember what their officer had said to the meagre crowd they’d been reduced to, could still see the parlour of his face and the awful dread in his eyes as he turned to them. They’d been signalling base for days, huddled under the protection of a makeshift camp somewhere in France, still fighting the better equipped German forces. They’d been holding out on the chance that their commanding officers would recall them, would have some sort of plan that could take them out of the line of fire, but they’d received no words other than to continue their defence. When words finally did come of some other tactic than sheer stubbornness, their only proclaimed hope of rescue was to fight their way out to the shores of Dunkirk, a prospect that looked grim even to the bravest soldiers amongst them.

 

Arthur was no longer part of the fourth Oxford and Bucks infantry, no; those that were were lying dead somewhere on foreign lands, far from home and their loved ones. Arthur was part of the survivors who’d crawled their way back, who’d waded through the heavy waters to the rescue boats. He was part of the several hundred thousand men that had been evacuated by the end of the eighth day, and now, two years later in the midst of another winter, he was part of the seventy-eighth infantry division now serving under Operation Torch.

 

He scoffed to himself as he took another forced bite out of a particularly chewy piece of bread. Operation Torch, a mission made up of veteran British soldiers and American troops fresh-faced and late to war. It was certainly an odd mixture, and noticeably so; even now, observing the activities of the cafeteria from where he sat parked at the far right end of the long seating benches, he could see the difference in the two. Sure, there were the more obvious contrasts like the accents and the uniforms and the volume of which each voice carried—Arthur could swear there was something to the American accent that made them seem louder— but there was more to it than that. There was a certain aura of excitement about the Americans, an eagerness and enthusiasm Arthur hadn’t seen since the days he’d been training two years ago. It seemed, from what he could tell, that they genuinely believed each and every one of them were going to go home with medals pinned to their chests and stories of adventure to tell their sweethearts, and that this all were just a competition to see who could do so first. Arthur made to scoff again at the thought, but ended up choking on the same piece of bread he’d been chewing at earlier.

 

Another thing that clearly defined the two forces was the fact that they mostly kept to themselves; the British mainly spoke to their own, and the Americans only ever breached the divide to marvel at their accents like animals in the zoo. In general, however, they seldom had anything to do with each other.

 

That being so, when Arthur finally looked up from the task of pounding his chest to stop him choking further, he almost choked again at the sight he saw before him; an American had sat himself down directly opposite him on the bench. His hair was a warm honey gold like wheat caught out in a setting sun, and Arthur could scarcely believe a man could have such clear blue eyes and still claim it to be natural. His skin was tan like the other Americans and his teeth a startling white, too—he could tell from the grin the stranger was sending him—but there was something softer Arthur couldn’t quite place. Perhaps it was the thin silver glasses perched on the end of his nose, or the hint of a baby face yet to be grown out of. Maybe it was just the shock of seeing someone so very different from the gaunt Englishmen he’d grown used to; this man, though still harbouring the effects of youth, certainly looked healthier and better fed than the rest. In any case, the American watched in amusement as Arthur spluttered and hastily recollected himself.

 

“You alright there, bud?” he asked, and Arthur had to scowl at both the nickname and the obvious delight the man was getting from watching him choke.

 

“I’m fine,” Arthur hissed out, hoping his glare alone would be enough to send the American back to his herd. After a beat of silence and a firm confirmation that the stranger was, in fact, not going to leave, he put down the stale bread and crossed his arms. “Can I help you?”

 

“If ya want,” the man replied. “Though I don’t have anything you can do for me right now.”

 

“I beg your pardon?” Arthur frowned, already wishing he’d instead let the man’s interest die out on his own.

 

“Hey, c’mon now—no need to beg,” the American said with a light chuckle, though Arthur didn’t join him. In fact, he was giving the man a rather potent glare that Arthur felt would’ve be an obvious enough sign to leave that even a pigeon would understand. But, alas, the American didn’t see it or didn’t acknowledge it, as he shifted in his seat and made himself more comfortable by leaning his elbows across the strip of table they shared. “You got a name?” he asked instead of the parting farewell Arthur had been hoping for.

 

“I’d assume just about everyone around here would have one,” Arthur retorted, rolling his eyes even as the American grinned on. “Is there a point to this conversation? With the amount of questioned we’ve shared already, I’m starting to assume this is more of interrogation.”

 

“A point?” the man echoed, finally dropping his smile and instead taking a look of confusion. “I didn’t realise you guys needed reasons to start conversations. Back where I’m from—y’know, the United states of America,” the man helpfully interjected as though Arthur couldn’t already tell from his strong accent and the uniform he wore. “All you gotta need to strike up a conversation is a ‘hello’ and you’re good to go.”

 

“You hardly started with a hello,” Arthur retorted, cocking a brow.

 

The American’s grin from before returned, and he stuck out his hand. “Well, let’s start again; hello, I’m Alfred F. Jones. Nice to meet you.”

 

Arthur looked at the man’s—Alfred’s – large calloused hand for a long moment before searching his face. Alfred’s smile never faltered, even as Arthur scrutinized what exactly could lay behind it. Why on Earth was this American trying to communicate with him?

 

Never the less, seemingly satisfied with Alfred’s sincerity, Arthur huffed and uncrossed his arms. “…Arthur,” he slowly supplied, shaking Alfred’s hand quickly but firmly. “Arthur Kirkland.”

 

At this, Alfred’s grin grew brighter by the second, if that were even possible. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Arthur. Suits you,” Alfred nodded as though he approved of his name, and Arthur couldn’t help but roll his eyes. “After hearing your crazy English accent, Arthurs a pretty good fit for ya. And here I was betting you were Scottish. Y’know, when I saw you sittin’ here all by your lonesome, I thought, ‘damn, I bet that guy with the monster brows and the wicked frown has the heaviest Scottish accent in the room.’ Guess I lost pretty big this time, huh.”

 

Arthur bristled, let go of Alfred’s hand and sent an accusatory glance his way. Where before he’d momentarily forgotten that he didn’t want to have a conversation with this Alfred, he quickly took up his previous defence upon hearing the motive behind this whole venture had been a dare all along. Never mind the fact that he was also rather offended at the jabs Alfred made at his appearance. “Well then, I’m glad to say you’ve lost your bloody bet. Go on back to your mates and pay them what you owe,” he said dismissively, his voice bitter even to his own ears. Again, Alfred looked as if Arthur had spoken another language.

 

“My mates?” he echoed. “you aint making sense, Artie.”

 

“It’s aren’t, and Arthur. Anyway— didn’t you say you betting on my nationality? Was it not the reason you came over here?”

 

All at once, Alfred’s face lit up in comprehension and amusement. He laughed and shook his head. “No no, I was making that bet with myself. I’m sure a few of the guys might’ve joined in, but I don’t have anything to bet with save for the packs we get. I don’t really feel like giving those up any time soon.”

 

Feeling his glares were doing nothing to penetrate Alfred’s enthusiasm for the conversation, Arthur decided to redirect his gaze to the two wide double doors of the cafeteria as though they were far more deserving of his attention. “Yes, well. They’re certainly better than the rations we get, I can assure you.”

 

“I guess so. You guys do have a crappy taste in food.” Alfred laughed way too much, Arthur decided, as he was laughing again right now.

 

“And its obvious you lot have had too much to taste,” Arthur replied indignantly, his stale bread all but forgotten. Alfred stopped laughing.

 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked, his blue eyes narrowing on Arthur’s. Taking his gaze off the doors, Arthur returned the stare in kind.

 

“All stomach and no brains, I see. It means you eat like it’s going out of fashion.”

 

“Do not!” Alfred grouched back, his shoulders hackling. “Is that what British food does to ya, huh? Make you bitter? I’ll make sure to stay the hell away from it.”

 

“Good! You certainly wouldn’t need any!” Arthur snapped back, rising from his seat. As he did, Alfred rose from his own, and a thought at the back of Arthur’s mind registered the fact that the American stood a good few inches taller. Still, that didn’t stop him from sending up the mightiest glare he could manage.

 

“You’re asking for it, bud,” Alfred grounded out, his hands flexing into fists by his sides.

 

Arthur sneered. “As if you’ve got the guts to touch me, you twat.”

 

“What’s your deal?” Alfred snarled, grabbing the fronts of Arthur’s shirt and shoving his face precariously close to his. He could feel the American’s breath brush past his face with every word. “Didn’t your momma teach you any manners?”

 

“What would you know about manners?” Arthur hissed, completely unaware they were now attracting the attention of the troops around them. His blood boiled under his skin and his tongue felt like it could spit acid. The very place where Alfred’s fist balled Arthur’s shirt and pulled him towards him burned on his body, and Arthur had had enough of the challenging dare proudly displayed in the American’s eyes.

  
“A lot more than you, sweetheart,” Alfred all but whispered now, but his words were low and mocking and powerful as if he had rather yelled them.

 

“Bite me,” Arthur snapped, and before he knew it, his fist was connecting to the American’s jaw with all the force he could muster.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if I got the ranks wrong-- I tried to research on it, but my searches didn't come up with much. If I've made a mistake, don't hesitate to correct me!
> 
> In any case, here is the next chapter. Hurrah.

If there were ever a time in Arthur’s life that he could truly die from both rage and embarrassment, it was now. Sure, perhaps his swollen left cheek and the bruises along his ribcage certainly heightened the grip of his own mortality, but the angry heat of his cheeks made him feel as though he could burn and burn and _burn_ right through his seat and into the earth’s core if he wanted to. And by God, did he want to.

  
“Is this a playground, Kirkland?” his Lieutenant asked, his voice as sharp and gritty as ever. While he could bear it out in the fields—where his questions and demands fell more so on the shoulders of the whole group than just his own—it was torture when directed at him solely.

 

Thus, though he felt rather like a human flame sitting precariously on the fence of combustion, it was with a tepid gaze and a downturn of his lips that Arthur gave a very meagre, human shake his head. “No sir.”

 

“Where do you currently reside?”

 

“An army camp, sir.”

 

“And under which division do you serve?”

 

“The 78th infantry division, sir.”

 

“Then why,” his Lieutenant pressed his large scarred hands down onto the desk before them and leant over. Arthur could smell his foul breath already. “Am I forced to deal with two full grown men behaving no better than bloody children?!”

 

It was Alfred who spoke next, shifting uncomfortably in the seat beside them. Arthur swallowed the grin the American’s discomfort brought him. “I didn’t start it, sir—“

 

“You,” the Lieutenant redirected his wrath to the American, his hand pointed in a way that indeed reminded Arthur of a headmaster scolding a disobedient student. “You’ll shut your gob if you know what’s good for you. I don’t care who started what. I don’t care who threw the first punch. I don’t even care that you yanks aren’t in my division.” He paused, pushing himself off the desk and crossing his arms. He gave them both a reprimanding look before continuing.

  
“What I care about is making soldiers. I care about making men the best version of themselves that they can be. I care about making them the most prepared so that they don’t get themselves killed under my watch. What I care about is making sure this operation goes down with as little grief as possible. Do you think I have time to break up schoolyard fights? Do you think I care to fix soldiers who injure themselves over petty bullshit like this?” He waited until he got a meagre ‘no sir’ from both soldiers in question before moving to stand by the open door behind them. While night had yet to approach, the dusk was always cold; and sitting there before the Lieutenant’s makeshift desk, every gust of wind that snuck its way through the doorframe bit at Arthur’s skin and rattled in his bones. Some living torch he turned out to be.

 

“You’re lucky I didn’t send you to the commander,” the Lieutenant grumbled, his eyes trained on something far off in the distance, though Arthur saw nothing of interest par the setting sun. “Do you want to be sent to another division, Kirkland?”

 

“No sir.”

 

“And you—what’s it—Jones,” Arthur could see Alfred tense in the corner of his eye, “do you want to be shipped back to America on your first run? I’m sure the folks back home would love to hear their son—“

 

“No, sir,” Alfred impeded, and though he looked surprised at his own outburst, there was a fiery confidence in his eyes and in the hard-pressed—despite bruised and split— line of his lips. From what Arthur could tell, anyway; at the American’s interruption, Arthur dared to glance away from the Lieutenant to stare incredulously at the soldier beside him.

 

The Lieutenant gave a low, brief laugh. Just as sudden as he’d laughed, however, his eyes hardened and his mouth sneered once more. “Interrupt me again, lad, and I’ll make sure the rest of your training program is done in nothing but your slacks. Do you hear me?”

 

“Yes sir,” Alfred said this time less boldly, and just like that the fire flittered away to ash.

 

“You’ve both wasted enough of my time already,” he began, his hands joining together behind his back, “but I don’t feel as though either of you actually understand the weight of your actions. Today, every soldier in that cafeteria saw you fight like you were no different from the Germans behind the lines. You showed those soldiers that we are each other’s enemy— that we can’t trust in one another long enough to strive towards a common goal. How can we expect to defeat our true enemies when we fight amongst each other?” he asked, and Arthur fidgeted in his seat. He wished he could say something, anything that would explain his actions; that Arthur wasn’t just some soldier who had waltzed into war with no prior knowledge other than that the Germans were the bad guys, unlike his American offender. On the other hand, perhaps the fact that Arthur wasn’t new to the army made his involvement all the worse. Never the less, he knew the Lieutenant wasn’t looking for an answer and speaking now would only make matters worse.

 

“Therefore, to teach you and everyone else around here that American and British troops will work together as one, whether they like it or not,” the Lieutenant continued, “you’ll be doing all your daily activities together as a singular unit. And I mean all—you’ll train together, you’ll eat together, you’ll share the same damned bunk together. In fact, if I see you more than ten paces away from each other, I’ll make you wish I’d sent you to hell instead.” With that, the Lieutenant turned to stare at the blank faces before him. “Is that clear?”

 

“Everything…” Alfred trailed off, his tone expressing the same amount of dismayed shock as Arthur was feeling.

 

“Everything,” the Lieutenant repeated, and it was then that Arthur’s words return to him.

 

“But sir,” he started, his hands coming to flounder at the ends of his knees. “We’re under different divisions, let alone different officers. We don’t share—“

 

“I’m fully aware of this, soldier,” his lieutenant replied as he made his way to the left of the door, where a herd of supplies had gathered erratically as if someone hadn’t had the energy to carry them any further. After rifling through odds and ends—spare boxes, kits, an assortment of helmets—he pulled out two rolled packs and chucked them to the pair. While Alfred caught it with some amount of ease, Arthur juggled his own between two grasping hands before finally catching it between his legs.

 

As Arthur now inspected the roll —half of a tent, if he was correct—his lieutenant confirmed his suspicion. “I’m not going to have either of you two fighting in the sleeping quarters, so you’ll be setting up a tent wherever you deem fit. Use your instincts. I’m sure you’ve learnt that by now— and as for the training, you’ll alternate between each division every day, starting with yours, Kirkland. Maybe you could teach the American a thing or two.”

 

Arthur sent a side eye glance to the American in question, who’s expression seemed to be caught somewhere between outright distress and offense. In either case, it wasn’t a good look, though he was sure his own face mirrored it quite well. That is, save for Alfred’s injuries and Arthur’s swollen cheek he could’ve sworn was broken had the nurse not assured him otherwise. Alfred had brooded and glared the entire journey to the medical bay, though his leers weren’t as powerful with haystack hair and wonky glasses just barely hanging onto the end of his nose.

 

Arthur himself had been searing in his own post-fight fury, though it was rather composed of bitter muttering and huffing compared to Alfred’s silent gloom. Living torches they began; but now, after the spark of the brawl had faded, neither had much fuel left to burn other than to keep up their prideful charade.

 

Thus, after being expelled from the lieutenant’s office, they stood in what felt like the heaviest silence Arthur had experienced since the time he’d been in the camps of France, back when silence had meant assured survival. But here, in the ultimately more safe and secured training camp of Ireland, the sudden silence of it all was far more suffocating than Arthur had imagined. Sure, they were ordered to be quiet after sundown, but the sky was alive in a blossom of orange and pink. Were it not for Arthur’s stubborn ego or scorned pride, he would’ve consented to at least some form of small talk by now.

 

But, when it seemed neither of them were going to budge from the mutual silence nor ask the foreboding question _‘what now?”_ , Arthur deciding he’d spent far too long acting as though he were eighteen rather than the twenty-three-year-old he was. And first act as a mature, twenty-three-year-old adult, he decided, would be storming off in the direction he found most suitable, without passing a word to the other he was now metaphorically attached to. _Yes_ , Arthur thought, _very mature indeed._

 

Luckily, Alfred wasn’t as stubborn—or perhaps stupid—enough to invoke the wrath of the lieutenant so soon after receiving their retribution, as Arthur could hear his hefty footfalls trudging along behind him. Arthur would’ve rolled his eyes at the sorry sound if he’d not needed full attention to navigate the muddy terrain and find somewhere particularly dry to be his bedding. Their bedding.

 

God help him.

 

“This wouldna happened if you hadn’t been such an asshole,” Alfred grumbled after ten minutes of searching had passed, and the last embers of the sun were finally dying behind the soot trees. Why he chose then to break their mutual silence was beyond Arthur, but this time, Arthur rolled his eyes.

 

“It wouldn’t have happened if you didn’t go sticking your nose into matters that didn’t concern you,” Arthur replied, tapping the ground underneath his foot to test its firmness. “Are you going to help or just stand there and watch me?”  
  
At that, Alfred took his obvious glare off Arthur’s back and directed towards the ground instead. “Since when was startin’ a conversation ‘sticking my nose’ into something?” Alfred grouched, scuffing the ground with the tip of his boot. Arthur paused his investigation to give Alfred an exasperated sigh.  
  
“Oh, I’m terribly sorry for not enjoying the splendid conversation you offered. Really,” Arthur seethed, returning to his task and tapping the ground again. “It was lovely listening to you sit there and blabber on about one stupid thing to the next, never mind the insults you dished out one after the other. It was charming. Listening to you make an arse of yourself in front of the lieutenant was far more entertaining, though.”

 

“Like you didn’t dish out some of your own,” Alfred muttered, rolling out his pack along with Arthur when he’d finally given up and settled for the spot next to a large tree. “And you punched me first, so it’s your fault.”

 

“You grabbed me,” Arthur hissed back. “Were you expecting a kiss on the cheek?”

 

Alfred muttered something along the lines of Arthur’s ass and something crawling up it, but Arthur paid him no heed; the ground they chose seemed to be somewhat dry—or drier, at least—than the rest of the muddy fields, meaning that they might find some shelter if it dared rain. Arthur was by no means happy with the arrangement, but he found some solace in having something dry to sleep against. He’d slept in worse places—foxholes and shallow graves being the majority of them—and while a dry bunk in the safety of a hut was comfortable, there wasn’t much difference between that and a tent save for the awful companion he was cursed with. Still, he didn’t regret punching Alfred. Not for a second.

 

And this attitude of ‘no regret’ lived mightily up _until_ it came to getting in the tent itself. Putting it up had been easy enough, even with Alfred’s constant begrudging stare as they both worked and the unspoken resentment for one another hanging between them. Arthur had been at least pleased they managed to get the thing upright before nightfall, and even more pleased to have somewhere to crawl under before the night’s icy grip could bite his skin a further red, but as soon as he’d stepped back to admire his own handiwork in the quickly hastening gloom, Alfred had already slipped in underneath and shucked off his uniform.

 

In all honesty, Arthur had forgotten he’d be sharing the tent with the man, carried away by the task at hand. That being said, he knew he really shouldn’t have been so surprised; he’d shared many a tent and many a foxhole before, after all, and Arthur had lost a worrisome amount of modesty since he’d first left the halls of Oxford and joined the muddy, cold camps of the army. Still, there was something rather unnerving in unbuttoning his uniform shirt and bunching it up underneath his arm as he crawled in after the American; something unnerving in the way those awfully blue eyes watched him shuffle on all fours before finally coming head to head, stared at his now exposed skin as though he’d never seen an Englishman so pale. There was something unnerving in the way he was suddenly aware of how close Alfred was, how he could feel Alfred’s sunshine warmth even though they left enough room for their spite to sleep between them. And there was something unnerving in the way Arthur stared right back despite himself, his gaze staying a few seconds too long on the tight line of Alfred’s tan jaw.

 

And then he was back to shucking off his boots and putting them at the end of the tent. Lying now with his back turned away from the American, he stuffed his uniform shirt underneath his head and pulled the thin cloth they’d been given as a blanket up towards him.

 

Alfred made a noise of complaint and yanked the blanket back to its original place, much to Arthur’s chagrin. “Don’t be a bed hog.”

 

“Learn to share,” Arthur hissed, giving a resolute tug back. Alfred fidgeted and shifted where he lay as if in defiance of Arthur’s tug, but made no attempt to pull the quilt any further. Instead, he finished his challenging bounces with a huff into his own makeshift pillow and settled, finally, on the edge of the canvas.

 

“Well,” Alfred started after a moment, kicking one of his legs out in what Arthur assumed was an attempt to get comfortable. If it was, Arthur had a feeling the other would be kicking and squirming all night. “I hope you’re happy.”

 

“Happy?” Arthur parroted quietly to his side of the dark canvas, his voice barely above a whisper. “I wouldn’t say that, no. Irritated? Yes, very much. Vexed? Miffed? Pissed off? I’d say those were also true.”

 

After a moment of silence, Alfred gave a rather long sigh, and Arthur was glad for the quiet. That is, he was. It hadn’t taken long for the tent to grow tense without something to fill the silence, and now that they both were, Arthur was acutely aware of every noise and every movement either of them made; the steady sound of Alfred’s breath against canvas, the feel of the blanket rising and falling slightly to match the sound, the lovely heat that radiated from him, After seconds of acute awareness turned into minutes, and then into an hour, Arthur knew it was going to be a long night before he was ever going to manage any sleep.

 

_Great._


End file.
